Elvis and the Fab Four
by MidnightMarauder1
Summary: "...there are only two kinds of people in the world, Beatles people and Elvis people. Now Beatles people can like Elvis and Elvis people can like the Beatles, but nobody likes them both equally. Somewhere you have to make a choice. And that choice, tells you who you are." – Mia Wallace, Pulp Fiction


**Elvis and the Fab Four**

"My theory is that when it comes to important subjects, there are only two ways a person can answer. Which way they chose, tells you who that person is. For instance, there are only two kinds of people in the world, Beatles people and Elvis people. Now Beatles people can like Elvis and Elvis people can like the Beatles, but nobody likes them both equally. Somewhere you have to make a choice. And that choice, tells you who you are."

– Mia Wallace, Pulp Fiction

**Dedicated to: **

QT

\- For entertaining a generation.

**Author's note:**

I do not own rights to the following characters.

All events are fictional.

**Chapter 1 - Prologue **

A dizzying pan with a Super 8mm black and white camera.

The cameraman struggles to fide his frame.

"Well-a since my baby left me," a pair of thin British lips explains.

"Boom-Boom," curling and smiling lips replies.

"I found a new place to dwell," George's crooked teeth.

"Boom-Boom," Paul manages to say under his light lyrical laugh.

"It's down at the end of lonely street at Heartbreak Hotel," Ringo's curling his lips to sell the impersonation.

Through the viewfinder this could be the out-takes to "Hard Days Night."

Paul removes his eye from the eyepiece and laughs.

They all laugh. Giddy as schoolgirls on prom night. And it is a night like that, of sorts…

Dewy eyed Paul pleads, "Read the letter again will ya' John."

John clears his throat, and recites, as if he were a reciting Shakespeare at the Globe Theater.

"Dear the Fab Ggggglorious Four,

You are hereby invited to Graceland to meet his Royal Highness the King of Rock and or Roll at your earliest convenience. Please contact my assistant for arranging a time that best suits your needs. I look forward to meeting you personally.

Sincerely,

Mr. Elvis Presley"

Paul and Ringo laugh as Paul goes into "You ain't nothing but a hound dog…."

Ringo provides the percussion with the nearby seat cushion.

John, "What's grabbing at cha' George?"

George, melancholy, gazes out the limo window. He does not answer.

John looks out.

They are in the heart of Memphis.

To them, it looks like a war zone. Poverty. Homelessness. People are getting by with the clothes on their backs. Not what they were expecting.

They hear the radio, "expected rainfall today, 75% chance of thunderstorms."

**Chapter 2 - Graceland**

Their limo parks through those famous musical noted gates. The Fab Four are instructed to wait. "It should just be a short time," the cutest blonde assistant you ever did lay your eyes upon explains. She is the type your good ol' mama back across the ocean warned you about. The kind of woman that you fall hopelessly in love with the second you set your eyes on her. She is apparently the only woman impervious to their charms. Reminding them of their humanity.

Two hours go by with occasional apologies from Blondie. But after she leaves, John exits through a nearby window -

"This is rubbish."

The others look at one another before following suit.

They reenter in some distant part of the mansion. Each room has more stuff than the next, delicate china, knick-knacks from G-d knows where, trying to escape their boxes.

They do not say anything, but it is on all on their faces, "how much stuff does one man need?"

Ringo thought it felt like a museum that was weeks away from opening. None of the lights are on.

They each explore separate rooms and miraculously find themselves all together again like an Escher painting. They are getting nowhere fast.

Paul scratches his head trying to make sense of it all. Then they hear the dim sound…a television.

John moves closer to it. It gets really loud. Some horrible daytime game show is playing. It happens to be "The Newlywed Game."

They walk in as quiet as mice.

They see the King himself in the middle of a grand sofa.

Fixated on the TV. Half eaten banana, bacon, and peanut butter sandwiches surround him along with a half eaten green chile fried chicken dish.

They stand there. The Beatles.

He does nothing.

George makes a nod to John before nodding to the door. John nods back, the universal sign for let's blow this joint.

The TV: "Now I would like to bring out a very special guest Mr. Robert Goulet…"

"Son of a B*&amp;%^," the King says to no one in particular.

The King puts his hand under a seat cushion and removes a massive revolver with intricate design work. In the ivory handle is stenciled EP. But none of that really matter as he fires a round into the –

\- cracking –

-shards of television glass everywhere.

The Fab Four protect their faces, everyone, but John. John just stares at what this cheeky American is going to do next. Now that he has his number, he is not taking his eyes off of him for a second.

The King stone cold. Saying apparently to the TV:

"You boys, snuck up on me there."

John convulses at being called a boy and if it was anyone else, he would of spit in his face.

"Come here let's have a look at you boys."

They extend their hands though they are still pretty traumatized.

"Yeah Prichard, right through here, don't mind these boys, don't need to be shy come right in. You know my 'Laugh In' will be on soon."

The Fab Four turn as a burly quiet man wheels in a cart, puts the television on it, and wheels it out.

"So you boys have any names?"

They start introducing themselves, but he cuts them off, "should be called, Happy, Doppy, Sneezy, and Sleepy if ya ask me." He laughs at his own jokes. Everyone laughs politely, not sure how to take that comment. They all laugh, but John. He gets out a pack of gum, offers it to everyone before taking a piece for himself.

"I really liked your hit, 'Play with Fire.'"

"Thanks b' that's actually performed by a band called the Rolling Stones," Paul corrects.

"You gotta be kiddin'. Okay, right well I like the one you called 'Rising Sun' or some such thing."

"Ah, see again…"

"Rolling Stones?"

"Not quite, a group calling themselves the Animals."

"So many of you funny looking guys, tough to keep ya'll apart, you understand of course."

"Of course," Paul. Paul the consummate fuckin' equalizer. Let's not fight people. Peacemaker with a capital "K" for kiss ass, John thought. Rubbish. This was a waste of gas was all he could think in between sex fantasies with the assistant.

"Hey let's play a game. Y'all like games?"

"Sure luv 'em, absolutely love 'em," poor Ringo taking the bait.

"I like you, you are a funny lookin boy, you a Jew?"

Ringo stares at the others not sure what to make of that.

"So anyways, this game, we take this here gun, oh don't worry we take out all of them here bullets except this here one. Slide 'er in and take her to the dancing floor."

He spins the chamber around. "Then we - hold it up to our heads and...click. What do you say to that? Funny Jew boy, you can go first."

Ringo looks at the others. They don't know what to say. He has been their idol for as long as they could recall, the closest thing to a living god. What do you say when a god tells you to do something insane.

Like Abraham and Issac. That was pretty ridiculous.

Noah and the arc. Seemed a bit batty at the time.

Moses walking the caravan of slaves right into the Red Sea. He couldn't find a map? Heaven forbid he pull over to a gas station and ask for directions? Typical.

Prichard comes in and starts cleaning up the glass. There is a new TV waiting in the wings.

"Come on there Sleepy, we ain't got all day," King says.

Ringo had full faith. Just like the prophets that came before him. He smiles as innocently as new-born puppy, faithfully obeys his owner, holds the gun up and - click -

**Chapter 3 - !**

BAAAAAAANNNNNNNGGGGG!

Everyone is covered in Starkey blood. He convulses and writhes on the white shag. Arteries in his neck paint the floor in a steady stream. Red like the Nile.

John thought they were invincible. They all did. Maybe they were in such shock at what was happening none of them could process the reality of what was going on. The immortality of the Beatles with complete denial of their senses lead to this moment of dementia. Blondie hammered them down and Elvis finished the job.

George and Paul fly out of there. John barely sees them go, as he slowly wipes pieces of Ringo from his eyes.

He hears the sound of the car speeding off.

John absorbs the moment, storing it into all recesses of his memory, so as not to forget a single detail of his dead friend. John is not emotional or nervous. His hands are as steady as iron beam. He does not know if this is a good or bad thing.

Suddenly his eardrums vibrate. He realizes that the King has been talking this whole time. He slowly tunes him in.

"I am going to miss that funny lil' Jew guy. I see you don't scare easily, what was your name, Sleepy or Happy."

John reaches for the gun from Ringo's hand.

"There ain't no bullets in that there gun there boy."

John does not tense up when he say's "boy" again. He anticipated it by this point..

John walks over to the ground and grabs a bullet that fell on the floor.

The King seems nervous.

Off kilter.

But he has a healthy dose of feeling immortal himself and thinks little of this man's actions. He wants to see what this funny man, from his funny country, where they all talk pretty funny, is going to say next.

Prichard finishes vacuuming the glass and places the new television in.

"Thank Eddy," not taking his eyes off Sleepy.

John looks at the gun, with blood now on that delicate pearl handle I was describing a second ago.

"My turn."

The King's jaw is on the ground as John casually spins the chamber as if he has been doing this his whole life and in a matter of speaking he has.

It stops.

He pulls back the hammer, coolly sets it to his head. He gives the King a closed lipped smile and wink. The King does not know what to do with that.

…click…

The King is riveted, by the moron's insanity.

"Boy that's…"

That's as far as he get's into the sixth time calling John a "boy," when he stops, John pulls back the hammer.

"Please allow me."

John fires at the King's head.

\- click -

Sigh of relief.

The King keeps another gun under another nearby sofa cushion and his hand is inching, not so casually, towards it -

"You have some balls on you…"

John pulls the trigger – click - again - click -

The King's hand races for the gun under the cushion…

…all bets are off. He is scrambling.

John sees the glint of a new gun.

Pulls again - click –

The King is smiling; he's a good handle on it.

BLLLLLAAAMMM -

Smoke.

John looks down. No entry wound he can see.

The King looks down – nothing either -

…wait a tic.

A trace of red under his shirt, the spot grows bigger.

Smoke coming from John's gun.

The King looks and inspects the spot.

"I loved this shirt. This was my favorite shirt in the whole wide world."

The gun falls from the King's hand.

John is shocked he did not have to kick the gun from his hand or do some lame television-cop move.

John kicks the gun away from the King while grabbing another bullet from the floor.

Spins it in the chamber. John plops it on his head again as if the two were magnetized.

"I don't know about you, but I am having a randy time here. Thanks for the invite."

Another closed lip smile and a wink. But at the final instant he takes aim at the King and fires. This time John did not have to wait five times. He did not have to wait long at all.

The King's brains cover all the photos against the far wall. Priscilla. Tom Jones. His neck is not supporting anything, freedom for the first time. The neck muscles spasm and turn on their own as blood pumps aimlessly out of the body.

John's heart is jackhammering though you would not know it by looking at him.

John inspects the new corpse with the same care he showed with Ringo. He does not want any detail to go unnoticed. He had not realized it until know, but the King's pants were not even buckled or zipped.

The couch slowly gets soiled.

Ugly American bastard – was his first thought, when he regained that ability.

Backwards bloody racist red neck – was his second.

His third was that of killing the whole bloody country. It appeared to be the only adequate revenge for what happened to Ringo.

After that thought he dismisses it, repressed it while whistling the "Bridge Over the River Kwai" tune.

He thinks for a second about exiting through the window, but thinks better 'bout it, and walks out the front door. As he is about to grab the doorknob, Blondie says, "it should just be a couple of minutes. And I am so sorry for the wait. I know the King really appreciates it."

John, "no worries in tha world luv."

He winks.

She smiles politely. She really doesn't have a clue who I am, he thinks.

He thinks about masks people wear and the gift of his smile and his face have given him to every citizen of this planet except Blondie. The doors his face has and will open for him.

He walks down the Dolan Dr. whistling the same tune as his ears pick up on a siren, different than the sound he is accustom to back home.

His limo approaches and he grabs onto the side like Elliot Ness with his blazer blowing in the wind, taking him back to pick up his friend and brother - Ringo.

Rain begins to fall.


End file.
